The Adventure of the Lion's Mane

Arthur Conan Doyle

It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.

My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full. Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the line.

My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a large place, which contains some score of young fellows preparing for various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation.

Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh. It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in cheery greeting.

“What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out.”

“Going for a swim, I see.”

“At your old tricks again,” he laughed, patting his bulging pocket. “Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there.”

Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.

At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed forward—it may have been fifty yards—and turned him on his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were “the Lion's Mane.” It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell forward on his side. He was dead.

My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.

I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the incident of the dog may show that there was no great sympathy between the dead man and himself.

“Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?”

“Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?”

“No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?”

“You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at once.”

Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach. From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all, he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

And here was the problem clearly defined—as strange a one as had ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes again—they were all dishevelled and unfastened—and he had returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them, and there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have been connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance. Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.

When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex breed—a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.

“I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong.”

I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor; also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand:

I will be there, you may be sure.

Maudie.

It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.

Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the note.

“The police have the letters,” he explained. “I could not bring them. But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him.”

“But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of using,” I remarked.

“It is mere chance,” said he, “that several of the students were not with McPherson.”

“Was it mere chance?”

Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

“Ian Murdoch held them back,” said he. “He would insist upon some algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut up about it all.”

“And yet I gather that they were not friends.”

“At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very sympathetic disposition by nature.”

“So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog.”

“That blew over all right.”

“But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps.”

“No, no, I am sure they were real friends.”

“Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?”

“Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood—a real beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so far as these letters would seem to indicate.”

“But who is she?”

“She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business.”

“Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?”

“On what pretext?”

“Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal.”

It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.

“That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but— By Jove, look at that!”

The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the road.

“Hullo!” said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal pulled him up.

“What were you doing there?” he asked.

Murdoch's face flushed with anger. “I am your subordinate, sir, under your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private actions.”

Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured. Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper completely.

“In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading.”

“This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can.”

“I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made The Gables habitable.”

He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood glaring after him. “Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?” he cried.

The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.

Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard. He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid as his hair.

“No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here”—indicating a powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the sitting-room—“is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word ‘marriage’ was never mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we are her only guardians. We are determined—”

But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

“I know already that Fitzroy is dead,” she said. “Do not be afraid to tell me the particulars.”

“This other gentleman of yours let us know the news,” explained the father.

“There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,” growled the younger man.

The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. “This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone.”

She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.

“Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help, whoever they may be.” It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at her father and brother as she spoke.

“Thank you,” said I. “I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You use the word ‘they.’ You think that more than one was concerned?”

“I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage upon him.”

“Might I have one word with you alone?”

“I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter,” cried her father angrily.

She looked at me helplessly. “What can I do?”

“The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm if I discuss them here,” said I. “I should have preferred privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the deliberations.” Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket. “It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?”

“I see no reason for mystery,” she answered. “We were engaged to be married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married against his wish. There was no other reason.”

“You could have told us,” growled Mr. Bellamy.

“So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy.”

“I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station.”

“It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you. As to this appointment”—she fumbled in her dress and produced a crumpled note—“it was in answer to this.”

Dearest [ran the message]:

The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.

F. M.

“Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night.”

I turned over the paper. “This never came by post. How did you get it?”

“I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears upon that I will most freely answer.”

She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.

“May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?”

She blushed and seemed confused.

“There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself.”

Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in our hands.

A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there came the incident of the dog.

It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.

“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog,” said she one evening.

I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my attention.

“What of Mr. McPherson's dog?”

“Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master.”

“Who told you this?”

“Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from The Gables found it dead—down on the beach, sir, at the very place where its master met his end.”

“At the very place.” The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But “in the very place”! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was it possible—? Yes, the perception was dim, but already something was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.

“Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool,” said one of them. “It must have followed the trail of its dead master.”

I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of it.

From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homeward.

I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein—so many that I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to the full.

There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.

But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary—a steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very troubled expression.

“I know your immense experience, sir,” said he. “This is quite unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I not?”

“Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it. That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?”

“What have you against him?”

He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.

“What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this evidence against him?” The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled in his mind.

“Consider,” I said, “all the essential gaps in your case. On the morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is this question of the instrument with which these injuries were inflicted.”

“What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?”

“Have you examined the marks?” I asked.

“I have seen them. So has the doctor.”

“But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have peculiarities.”

“What are they, Mr. Holmes?”

I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. “This is my method in such cases,” I explained.

“You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.”

“I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing remarkable?”

“I can't say I do.”

“Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?”

“I have no idea. Have you?”

“Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon. Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way towards the criminal.”

“It is, of course, an absurd idea,” said the policeman, “but if a red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other.”

“A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?”

“By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it.”

“Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words—the ‘Lion's Mane.’”

“I have wondered whether Ian—”

“Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any resemblance to Murdoch—but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek. I am sure that it was ‘Mane.’”

“Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?”

“Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss.”

“And when will that be?”

“In an hour—possibly less.”

The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

“I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's those fishing-boats.”

“No, no, they were too far out.”

“Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?”

“No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready,” said I with a smile. “Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were to meet me here at midday—”

So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was the beginning of the end.

My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. “Brandy! Brandy!” he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting, almost as distrait as his companion.

“Yes, yes, brandy!” he cried. “The man is at his last gasp. It was all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way.”

Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders. “For God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!” he cried. “Anything to ease this infernal agony!”

The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.

The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

“My God!” he cried, “what is it, Holmes? What is it?”

“Where did you find him?”

“Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too far to The Gables, so I made for you.”

“Did you see him on the beach?”

“I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake, Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?”

“I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector, come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your hands.”

Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly I walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.

“Cyanea!” I cried. “Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!”

The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.

“It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!” I cried. “Help me, Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever.”

There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round, rising slowly to the surface.

“Well, this gets me!” cried the inspector. “What was it, Mr. Holmes? I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It don't belong to Sussex.”

“Just as well for Sussex,” I remarked. “It may have been the southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas.”

When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to reach the bank.

“Here is a book,” I said, taking up the little volume, “which first brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.

“If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea capillata.

Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

“He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.

“The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way through the nerves.

“The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite torment.

“Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.

“It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool. He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson.”

“And incidentally exonerates me,” remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry smile. “I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend.”

“No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific experience.”

“But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles. That phrase ‘the Lion's Mane’ haunted my mind. I knew that I had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been his death.”

“Then I, at least, am cleared,” said Murdoch, rising slowly to his feet. “There are one or two words of explanation which I should give, for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome.”

Stackhurst held out his hand. “Our nerves have all been at concert-pitch,” said he. “Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall understand each other better in the future.” They passed out together with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector remained, staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.

“Well, you've done it!” he cried at last. “I had read of you, but I never believed it. It's wonderful!”

I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower one's own standards.

“I was slow at the outset—culpably slow. Had the body been found in the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard.”

狮鬃毛

居然有一个奇怪难解的案子，其难度不下于我生气所办的任何案件，在我退休以后落到我身上，而且可以说是找上我门来的。事情发生在我退居苏塞克斯小别墅以后，那时我已经全心全意地过起恬静的田园生活，这正是我多年生活在一陰一沉的伦敦时所时常渴望的生活。自从退休以来，华生几乎完全从我生活中消失了。偶尔来度过一个周末，这也就是我和他的全部一交一往了。因此，我只有亲自来记录案情。要是他在场的话，他会怎样地去大事渲染故事的紧张开端以及我终于克服了困难的胜利啊！然而他毕竟不在场，所以我只好用我的方式来平铺直叙，把我的探索狮鬃之谜的困难道路上的每一个步骤，用我自己的话表现出来。

我的别墅坐落在苏塞克斯丘陵的南麓，面对着辽阔的海峡。在这个海角，整个海岸都是白垩的峭壁，要下到海边去，只有通过唯一的一条长而崎岖、陡峭易滑的小径。在小路的尽头，即使在涨潮的时候，也有一百米的布满一卵一石的海滩。但到处都有弯曲的凹陷的地点，形成天然的良好游泳池，每次涨潮都重新充满了水。在这样一条向两边伸延数英里的海岸上，只有一个小海湾即伏尔沃斯村打断了这条直线。

我的别墅是孤零零的。我，老管家，以及我的蜜蜂，就是这座房子的全部居民。半英里以外，则是哈罗德-斯泰赫斯特的著名私人学校，三角墙学校。那是一座颇大的房子，有几十名为不同职业进行着训练的青年学生，还有几名教师。斯泰赫斯特在年轻时代是一个有名的剑桥大学的划船运动员，也是全能的优秀学生。自从我移居海滨以来，他和我的关系一直良好，也是我唯一的可以不经邀请就互相在晚上一访问的熟朋友。

在一九○七年七月底，刮了一次大海风，自海峡向海岸，把海水冲积到峭壁底，在潮退以后留下了一个大咸水湖。早晨风已平静，海滨被冲洗过后，异常清新。在这样的良辰，呆在家里工作是太不可能了，我就于早餐之前出来散步，领略新鲜空气。我沿着峭壁通向海滩的小路散步。我听见背后有人在喊，原来是斯泰赫斯特在挥手欢叫。

“多好的早晨，福尔摩斯先生！我就知道会看见你出来的。”

“去游泳，对吧。”

“又来你那套推论了，”他笑了，用手指着鼓鼓的衣袋。“是的，麦菲逊一早就出来了，我可能找到他。”

弗茨罗伊-麦菲逊是教科学的教员，是一个健美的青年，他的生命力被患有风湿一热之后而得的心脏一病削弱了。但无论如何他是一个天生的运动员，在各种不太激烈的运动中都是杰出的。不分冬夏，他坚持游泳，由于我也一爱一游泳，所以时常遇上他。

就在这时我们看见了他。他的头在小路尽头的峭壁边缘上露了出来，接着他的身影出现在崖上，象醉了一样摇晃着。突然他把两手往头上一举，痛叫一声，向前扑倒。斯泰赫斯特和我赶紧跑过去——相距有五十来米——扶他仰过身来。他显然是不行了。那失神下陷的眼睛和发青怕人的两颊只能是死亡的征兆。刹那间，一线生命回到他脸上，他以认真警告的神情发出两三个字。那声音是连绵含糊的，但我听见他由嘴唇迸出来的最后两个字是‘狮鬃一毛一’。它的含义是不着边际、无法理解的，但我实在不能把它读作别的字音。说完之后，他半抬起身一子，两手一伸，侧着倒下了。他死了。我的同伴被这情景吓得不知所措。而我，正如大家想象的那样，每一根神经都警觉起来。这是必要的，因为事态很快就表明了，这是一个不寻常的案子。他只穿着柏帛丽雨衣、裤子和没系鞋带的帆布鞋。栽倒的时候，他那匆匆围在肩上的柏帛丽雨衣滑落下来，露出他的躯干。我们大吃一惊。他的背上有许多暗一红色的条纹，仿佛他被人用极细的鞭子猛一抽一过。那造成创伤的鞭子一定是富有弹一性一的，因为绕着他的肩部和肋部整个都是炎肿的长长的鞭痕。他的嘴边往下滴着血，因为他在极度痛苦中咬破了下唇。他那痉一挛变一态的脸说明了他是多么痛苦。我正跪在死者身旁，而斯泰赫斯特站在旁边时，有一个影子罩过来，原来是伊恩-默多克来到我们身旁。他是数学教员，是一个瘦高而肤色黝一黑的人，由于沉默寡言和一性一情孤僻，很难说有什么朋友。他似乎是生活在高超一抽一象的圆锥曲线和不尽谤的世界里，与日常生活了无牵涉。他被学生当做怪物，本来可能成为他们嘲弄的对象，然而这个人身上有些异乡的气质，这不仅表现在那墨黑色的眼睛和黝一黑的皮肤上，还表现在偶尔发作的脾气上，那是只能用狂一暴二字来形容的。有一次，他被麦菲逊的小狈弄烦了，他抄起狗来就从玻璃窗上扔出去了。要不是因为他是一位优秀教师的话，就凭这件事，斯泰赫斯特早就请他走了。就是这位复杂的怪人来到我们身边。看来他是真诚地被死者的景象惊呆了，尽避小狈事件表明在死者与他之间是缺乏好感的。

“可怜的人！可怜的人！我能做些什么？我能帮忙吗？”

“刚才你跟他在一起吗？你能告诉我们发生了什么情况吗？”

“不在一起，今天我出来晚了。我还没到海滨去呢。我刚从学校出来。我能做些什么呢？”

“你可以赶紧到伏尔沃斯分驻所去，立即报案。”

他没说二话，掉头就以最高速度跑着去了。我把办这个案子的任务主动承担起来，而吓呆了的斯泰赫斯特，还呆在死者旁边。我采取的第一个步骤自然是记下来谁在海滨。从小径的顶端我可以望见整个海滨，绝无人影，只有远远的三两个人影向伏尔沃斯移动着。搞清这一点之后，我步下小径。白垩的土质中混杂着粘土和灰泥岩，我见小径上有同一个人的上行和下行的脚印。今天早晨没有别人沿这条路到海滨去过。有一个地方，我看到了手指按在斜坡上手掌的痕迹，这只能说明可怜的麦菲逊在上平时跌倒过。还有圆形的小坑，说明他不止一次地跪下来过。在小径下端，是退潮留下来的咸水湖。麦菲逊曾在湖边脱一衣，因为在一块岩石上放着他的一毛一巾。一毛一巾是叠好和干燥的，看来他没有下过水。当我在硬一卵一石之间搜寻的时候，有一两次我发现了他的帆布鞋印和赤足脚印。这说明他已准备下水，虽然干燥的一毛一巾又表明他实际尚未下水。

问题已经清晰地呈现出来了——可以说是我生气所遇见的最怪异的问题之一。当事人来到海滨顶多不过一刻钟。斯泰赫斯特是从学校随后跟来的，因此这一点毫无疑问。他去游泳，已经脱了衣服，这由赤足脚印可以说明。然后他突然披上衣服——全是凌一乱未扣好的——未曾下水或至少未曾擦干就回来了。他改变主意的原因是他受到残酷的鞭打，被折磨到咬破嘴唇的程度，他只剩下最后一点力气爬离开那块地方就死了。那么是谁干的这个残酷的事儿呢？不错，在峭壁基部是有些小一洞一穴一，但是初升的太一陽一直照在洞内，根本没有隐蔽之处。还有远处海滨的几个人影，但他们离得太远，不可能和案子联系起来，再说还隔着麦菲逊要游泳的咸水湖，湖水一直冲到峭壁。在海上，有两三只渔船离得不太远。等有时间可以查问一下船里的人。目前有那么几条线索可资调查，但是没有一条是明确的。

当我终于回到死者身旁时，已经有几个人在围观。斯泰赫斯特自然还在那里，默多克刚把安德森——就是村里的警察——给找了来。后者是一个高大、黄髭、迟钝、结实的苏塞克斯类型的人——这种人往往在笨重无声的外表下掩盖着明智的头脑。他不声不响地倾听着，把我们说的要点都记下来，最后把我拉到一边说：

“福尔摩斯先生，我需要你的教导。这对我来说是一个大案子，如果我出了差错，我的上级刘易斯就会说话。”

我建议他立即把他们顶头上司找来，另外找一个医生，在他们到来之前，不要移动现场的任何东西，新的脚印越少越好。趁着这时，我搜查了死者的口袋。里面有一块手帕，一把大折刀，一个折叠式的名片夹子，里边露出一角纸。我把它打开一交一给警察。上面是女一性一的潦草手迹：

我一定来，请你放心。

莫迪

看来是情一人的约会，但时间和地点未详。警察把纸放回名片夹，连同别的东西一起又放进柏帛丽雨衣的口袋。由于没有旁的情况，在建议彻底搜查峭壁基部之后，我就回家去用早餐了。

一两小时以后，斯泰赫斯特走来告诉我一尸一体已移到学校，将在那里进行验一尸一。他还带来一些重要而明确的消息。正如我预料的，壁底的搜查一无所获。但他检查了麦菲逊的书桌，发现了几封关系密切的信，通信者是伏尔沃斯村的莫德-贝拉密小一姐。这样我们就找出了他身上那张条子的笔者。

“信被警察拿走了，”他解释说，“我没法把信拿来。但可以肯定这是严肃认真的谈恋一爱一。不过，我看不出这个事儿跟那个横祸有什么关系，除了那个姑一娘一跟他订过一个约会。”

“但总不会在一个你们大家常去的游泳场吧，”我说。

“今天只是由于偶然的情况那几个学生才没跟麦菲逊一起去。”

“真是偶然的吗？”

斯泰赫斯特皱起眉头沉思起来。

“默多克把学生留下了，”他说道，“他坚持要在早餐前讲解代数。这个人，他对今天的惨事非常难过。”

“但我听说他们两人并不大对头。”

“有一个时期是不对头。但是一年以来，默多克和麦菲逊可以说非常接近，默多克从来没有和别人那么接近过，他的一性一情不大随和。”

“原来是这样。我仿佛记得你对我谈起过关于苛待狗的吵架。”

“那件事早过去了。”

“也许留下怨恨。”

“不可能，不可能，我相信他们是真正的好朋友。”

“那咱们得调查那个姑一娘一的情况。你认识她吗？”

“谁都认识她。她是本地的美人，而且是真正的美人，无论到了什么地方她都会受到注意的。我知道麦菲逊追求她，但没料到已经发展到信上的那种程度。”

“她是什么人呢？”

“她是老汤姆-贝拉密的女儿。伏尔沃斯的渔船和游泳场包衣室都是他的财产。他本来是个渔民，现在已经相当殷实了。他和他儿子威廉共同经营企业。”

“咱们要不要到伏尔沃斯走一趟，去见见他们？”

“有什么借口呢？”

“借口总是能找到的。不管怎么说，死者总不是自己虐一待至死的吧。总是有人手拿着鞭子一柄一，如果真是鞭子造成创伤的话。在这个偏僻的地方，他一交一往的人是有限的。如果咱们查遍了每一角落，总能够发现某种动机，而动机又会引出罪犯。”

要不是心情被亲眼看见的悲剧毒化了的话，在这起着麝香草的芳一香的草原上散步本来是愉快的事情。伏尔沃斯村坐落在海湾周围的半圆地带。在旧式的小村后面，依铺盖了几座现代的房子。斯泰赫斯特领着我朝这样的一幢房子走去。

“这就是贝拉密所谓的‘港口山庄’，就是有角楼和青石瓦的这座房子。对于一个白手起家的人来说这就不算坏了——嘿，你看！”

山庄的花园门开了，走出一个人来。那瘦高、嶙峋、懒散的身材不是别人，正是数学家默多克。一分钟以后我们在路上和他打了个照面。

“喂！”斯泰赫斯特招呼他。他点了点头，用他那古怪的黑眼睛瞟了我们一眼就要过去。但校长把他拉住了。

“你上那儿干什么去了？”校长问他。

默多克气得涨红了脸。“先生，我在学校里是你的下属，但我不懂我有什么义务向你报告我的私人行动。”

斯泰赫斯特的神经在经历了这一天的紧张之后已经变得容易激怒了，否则他会有耐心的。但这时他完全控制不住脾气了。

“默多克先生，你这样的回答纯属放肆。”

“你自己的提问也属于同一范畴。”

“你已经一再表现出这样的放肆无礼。我不能再容忍了。请你尽快地另找高就！”

“我已经想走了。今天我失去了那个唯一使我愿意住在你学校里的人。”

说罢他就大踏步走他的路去了，斯泰赫斯特忿恨地瞪着他。“你见过这么不象话的人吗？”他气愤地喊道。

给我印象最深的一点却是，默多克抓住了第一个使他离开这个犯罪现场的机会。这时在我脑子里开始形成一种模糊的怀疑。也许访问贝拉密家可以进一步搞清这个问题，斯泰赫斯特打起一精一神来，我们就进入住宅。

贝拉密先生是一个中年人，留着通红的大一胡一子。他似乎正在生气，不大工夫脸也变得通红了。

“不，先生，我不想知道什么细节。我儿子，”他指了指屋子角落里的一个强壮、脸色一陰一沉的小伙子，“和我都认为麦菲逊先生对莫德的追求是一种侮辱。先生，结婚的话头从来他也没有提出过，但是通信、约会一大堆，还有许多我们都不赞成的做法。她没有母亲，我们是她仅有的保护人。我们决心——”

但是小一姐进来了，他便没有说下去。不可否认，她走到世上任何场合都会带来光彩的。谁能想象，这样一朵鲜花竟会生长在这样的环境里和这样的家庭中呢？对我这个人来说，女一性一从来不是一种吸引力，因为我的头脑总是控制着心灵，但是当我看到她那充满草原上那种新鲜血色的、形象完美而清晰的脸时，我相信任何一个青年在她面前都会做她的俘虏。就是这样一个姑一娘一推门走进来，睁着紧张的大眼睛，站到斯泰赫斯特面前。

“我已经知道弗茨罗伊死了，”她说。“请不要顾虑，把详情告诉我。”

“是另外那位先生把消息告诉我们的，”她父亲解释说。

“没有必要把我妹妹牵扯到这件事里去！”小伙子咆哮道。

妹妹狠狠地瞪了他一眼。“这是我的事，威廉。请你让我按自己的方式来处理自己的事。从情况看来，是有人犯了罪。如果我能帮助找出犯罪的人，这就是我能为死者略尽的最微小的心意。”

她听我的同伴简短地讲述了情况。她那镇静而专心的神色使我感到她不仅有特殊的美貌，而且有坚强的一性一格。莫德-贝拉密在我的记忆中将永远是一个完美而杰出的女一性一。看来她已经认识我的外貌，因为她终于对我说：

“福尔摩斯先生，请把这些罪犯找出来受法律制裁吧。不管他们是谁，你都会得到我的同情和协助。”我仿佛觉得她一边说着一边挑战地向她父亲和哥哥瞟了一眼。

“谢谢你，”我说，“我重视一个女人在这些事情上的直觉。你刚才说‘他们’，你是否认为牵涉到不止一个人？”

“因为我很了解麦菲逊先生，他是一个勇敢而强有力的人，单独一个人品侮不了他。”

“我能不能单独与你谈谈？”

“莫德，”她父亲生气地喊道，“我告诉你不要牵涉到这件事里去。”

她无可奈何地看着我。“我能做什么呢？”

“整个社会很快就会知道事实了，所以我在这儿讨论一下也没坏处，”我说，“我本来是想单独谈谈，但如果你父亲不允许，他只好参加讨论。”然后我谈到死者衣袋里发现的条子。

“这个条子在验一尸一的时候必然会公布。你能不能作些解释？”

“这没有什么可保密的，”她答道，“我们是订了婚约的。之所以没有宣布，仅仅是由于弗茨罗伊的年老将死的叔叔可能会取消他的继承权，如果他不按叔叔的愿望结婚的话。没有任何别的理由。”

“你应该早告诉我们，”贝拉密先生咆哮道。

“爸爸，如果你表现出一点同情，我早就告诉你了。”

“我不赞成我女儿跟社会地位不相当的人打一交一道。”

“正是你对他的偏见才使我们不能告诉你的。至于那次约会——”她从衣袋里掏出一张一团一了的条子，“那是我给这条子写的回信。”

亲一爱一的（那条子写道）：

星期二太一陽一一落时在海滨老地方。这是我唯一可以一抽一身出来的时间。

AＦ.Ｍ。

“星期二就是今天。本来今晚我是要去见他的。”

我翻过来看条子。“这不是邮寄来的。你怎么拿到它的呢？”

“我不愿回答这个问题。这实在和你侦查的案情毫无关系。一切有关的问题我保证充分回答。”

她确实这样做了。但没有什么有用的情况。她并不认为她的未婚夫有暗藏的敌人，但她承认她有几个热烈的追求者。

“我能否问你，默多克先生是其中之一吗？”

她脸红了，而且显出慌乱的样子。

“曾有一个时期我认为他是。但当他知道弗茨罗伊和我的关系以后，情况就全改变了。”

再一次，关于这个怪人的疑一团一变得更肯定了。必须调查他的档案。他的房间必须私下搜查一番。斯泰赫斯特是一个自愿协助我的人，因为在他脑子里也形成了怀疑。这样，我们就从港口山庄回来了，并觉得这一团一乱麻至少有一端头绪已经掌握在我们手中。

一个星期过去了。验一尸一没有提出什么线索，只好暂停审理，寻求新的证据。斯泰赫斯特对他的下属进行了谨慎的调查，也简单地查看了一下他的房间，但都没有结果。我本人又把整个现场仔细检查了一遍，也没有新的结论。读者会看到在我们的探案记录上从来没有一个案子象这样地使我无能为力。连我的想象力也无法设想出一个解决方案。后来发生了狗的事件。

这还是我的管家首先从那个奇妙的无线电里听到的，人们就是通过它来收集乡村新闻的。

“先生，惨消息，麦菲逊先生的狗，”一天晚上她忽然说道。

一般我是不鼓励这种谈话的，但麦菲逊的名字引起了我的注意。

“麦菲逊的狗怎么了？”

“死了，先生，由于对主人的悲痛而死了。”

“谁告诉你的？”

“大家都在谈这事儿。那狗激动异常，一个礼拜没吃东西。今天三角墙学校的两个学生发现它死了——而且是在海滨，就在它主人死的那个地方。”

“就在那地方。”这几个字在我记忆中非常突出。我脑子里有一个模糊的感觉，这必是重要的问题。狗死了，这倒也合乎狗的善良忠实的本一性一。但在原地点！为什么这个荒凉的海滨对狗有危险？难道它也是仇人的牺牲品？难道——？是的，感觉还模糊，但在我脑中已经形成了一种想法。几分钟以后我就往学校去了，我在斯泰赫斯特的书房里找到了他。应我的要求，他把那两个发现狗的学生——撒德伯利和布朗特——给找了来。

“是的，那狗就躺在湖边上，”一个学生说。“它一定是寻着主人的足迹去的。”

后来我去看了那条忠实的小狈，是艾尔戴尔猎犬，它躺在大厅里的席子上。一尸一体僵硬，两眼凸出，四肢痉一挛，处处都是痛苦的表现。

从学校我径自走到游泳湖。太一陽一已经下山，峭壁的黑影笼罩着湖面，那湖水闪着暗光，犹如一块铅板。这里阒无一人，唯有两只水鸟在上空盘旋鸣叫。在渐暗的光线中，我依稀看得出印在沙滩上的小狈的足迹，就在它主人放一毛一巾的那块石头周围。四面的暗影越来越黑下来了，我站在那里沉思良久。我头脑中思绪万千。任何人都经验过那种噩梦式的苦思，你明知你所搜寻的是关键的东西，你也明知它就在你脑子里，但你偏偏想不出来。这就是那天晚上我独自立在那个死亡之地时的一精一神状态。后来我转身缓缓走回家去。

我走到小径顶端的时候，突然想起来了。如闪电一般，我一下子记起了那个我苦思苦想的东西。读者都知道，如果华生没有白白描写我的话，我这个人头脑中装了一大堆生气的知识，而毫无科学系统一性一，但这些知识对我的业务是有用的。我的脑子就象一间贮藏室，里面堆满了各式各样的包裹，数量之多，使我本人对它们也只有一个模糊的概念了。我一直知道我脑子里有那么一样东西对目前这个案子是有重大意义的。它还是模糊不清的，但我晓得我有方法使它明朗化。它是离奇的，难以置信的，但始终是可能的。我要作一个彻底的实验。

我家里有一个顶阁，装满了图书。我回家就钻进了这间房，翻腾了一个小时。后来我捧着一本咖啡色印着银字的书走了出来。我焦急地找到了我依稀记得的那一章。果然，那是一个不着边际和不大可能的想法，但我非得弄清楚它确是如此，否则我安